


"Such precision and care"

by Creamteasforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Fatlock, Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten-year old John Watson finds a burglar in the garden one night. Young Sherlock finds a friend. Same difference, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Such precision and care"

**Author's Note:**

> My Mystrade RP partner martin-j-christopher-freeman offered me this prompt; “How about a teenlock fic where Sherlock and John meet and they bond over good food. A few years down the line and they’re both far plumper.” Still being on a let’s-have-John-feed-Sherlock kick after the previous fics, I was inclined to return to the trough one more time for this one. Once I’d come up with a good reason why this should be happening, the rest of the fic came easily enough. 
> 
> If anyone detects a trace of “The Eleventh Hour” in here, well, it’s more than a little inevitable given the similar setup. Why I phrased the fic round the Pet Shop Boys song I’m not quite certain, though it may have been some subconscious recollection of the line “if there’s no one here to share the flowers in the garden/the wine”. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John had always heard the expression about circling a red-letter day in your diary, but he’d never actually done it. Until the night the burglar came. 

He was ten and had been left in charge of the house for the first time in his life, which would have made the day special all by itself. Harry and his parents were away overnight for some exhibition his sister was doing up in Scotland, and he’d cajoled and pleaded his way into being allowed to stay home instead of suffering through the long drive north – after all, he was old enough now, wasn’t he? His father hadn’t liked it much, but his mother had said warmly that it was only fair, they’d let Harriet stay home alone at that age. 

First John watched all the telly he wanted - there weren’t any good programmes on, but that wasn’t the point. Then put on all his favourite records and a couple of his sister’s that he pretended not to like but secretly did, and stayed up late because he could. The clock was just ticking past eleven, with John feeling sleepy and thinking about bed, when it happened. Something went crash-bang outside. 

John sprang into action. Armed with the heavy hall torch, he dashed out back and scanned the garden. A bird chirped indignantly, but other than that it was quiet. Nothing out there. The half-grown tomato vines looked untouched, there were no odd footprints in the grass. No sign that a stranger had passed this way. 

But somebody *had* been here, because one of the dustbins was lying on the ground, with the bottom torn off. And that certainly wasn’t right. 

There were two possibilities; either the burglar had made a run for it and climbed over the fence very quickly indeed, or he was hiding in the shed, the only place here big enough to hide an intruder. John crept up, holding his breath and listening hard. 

Inside, someone’s stomach growled loudly. 

John couldn’t help himself. He giggled. 

The door swung ajar; a thin, curly-haired boy around his own age had pushed it open. He blinked, looking almost as surprised as John felt. 

John found his voice first, though. “Are you a burglar?”

“No!” the other boy protested emphatically. “I’m not here to steal anything. Well, not anything you want. I was rummaging through your dustbins, that’s all, looking for something to eat.” 

“My father’s rigged it up as a trap, it’s nailed down loosely so it’ll break and make a lot of noise if anyone tries that. I think he’s always wanted to catch a real live burglar,” John explained. “He worries a lot.”

“You’re not going to call the police on me, are you?” the curly-haired boy asked anxiously. “I can’t afford to have a record, honest.” His hands played with the hem of his cheap T-shirt, twisting the material into knots as he stared intently at John. “It might make all the difference to my future career, you see.”

John considered. His father would have called, right away. His mother would have laughed and told the teenager to run along and not to be so silly in future. John wasn’t sure, though. He’d studied anatomy books, part of his hopes to qualify as a doctor one day, and the boy in front of him looked painfully light for his tall frame. There was a sharpness to the cheekbones that made it look as though he hadn’t had a good meal for a while. 

“Maybe you’d better wait here while I get you something to eat,” John offered. “I won’t call the police on you, I promise. Here, you’d better have the torch, it’s dark out here.” He pressed it into the boy’s hands and walked back towards the house, quickly but not too fast. It wouldn’t do to look frightened, after all. 

There wasn’t very much in the kitchen, but he found some sausages and mash, and an unopened package of Bourbon biscuits. He collected some plates and forks, plus a bottle of Ribena and went back outside. 

The curly-haired boy was standing by the fence with a hand on it, as though he was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. The torch was lying in the grass. John sat down on the ground a little awkwardly and started arranging the things. 

“I couldn’t find a picnic cloth, but I guess we don’t need one. There’s three sausages for you and two for me. I hope it’s all right that they’re cold.”

“I don’t mind,” the boy said. He gracefully set himself down, Indian style, and took the proffered plate with a muttered “thank you”. John ate his mash slowly; he wasn’t hungry, but thought it might make things more comfortable if he was eating as well. By contrast, after a tentative bite or two, the other boy had started wolfing down the meal, devouring meat and potatoes with an avid keenness that made John feel hungry just to look at him. 

“What’s your name?”

“William.”

“No it isn’t. What’s your real name?”

“Sherlock,” the other boy blurted out. “How’d you deduce that?”

“My sister played a joke like that on me once. If the other person’s expecting a question, they’ll tell you the answer they’ve prepared. If you ask it again, you might catch them off-guard. And I wouldn’t have told me my real name if I was you.”

Sherlock considered. “That’s rather clever. I’ll have to remember that trick for future. I’m going to be a police detective when I grow up, you see, it might come in useful some time.”

“The police? Really? I don’t think they take criminals, you know.”

“Oh, this is just for practice. I’ve been trying to get into the mentality of a homeless youth, you see. I’ll understand them better when I’m an adult if I’ve experienced something of what they’ve been through.”

“How’s it going, then?”

Sherlock looked a bit smug. “I’ve been doing this for two weeks now, as soon as school let out, and I’ve made several useful contacts and acquired quite a lot of experience. My hypothesis that people try to actively ignore homeless people was absolutely right, they’d be ideal for stakeouts and trails.” 

John, bewildered, concentrated on the part of the conversation he had followed. “Two weeks? And only eating the stuff you find in dustbins?”

“Well, not entirely. I tried busking a few times and got enough for some sandwiches. And there’s some religious places that feed you if you don’t mind a long dull speech.”

“You’re still growing, though,” John pointed out. “It’s unhealthy not to eat at this age. Not good for your body.”

“My body is just transport,” Sherlock said grumpily. “You sound like my mother. She tracked me down today, wouldn’t say how she’d found me, and said I could have one more night on the streets but said if I didn’t come back tomorrow she’d confiscate my chemistry set. So I’ll have to. There’s a wonderful fungi extraction that I should hate to lose.” He scraped his plate clean and glanced hopefully at the packet of biscuits. 

John tore the package open and took a few for himself, then tossed it over. “Help yourself.” 

“Thanks. So it looks as though I shall have to go home and be bored all summer. At school I can improve my study of human nature, even if it’s largely pointless, but during the holidays I have nothing to do. Bored bored bored.” The biscuits vanished at a rapid rate. John opened the Ribena and had a sip, then passed Sherlock the bottle. He wiped it off daintily and swigged some down, then choked slightly. “I’d forgotten how sweet that stuff was. I haven’t had it since I was six.”

“My mum drinks it all the time. She loves blackcurrant. Blackcurrant sweets, blackcurrant tarts, she even found an artist who’d painted a picture of blackcurrants once and bought it to put on the kitchen wall.”

“Ah, a monomania,” Sherlock said with enthusiasm. “Tell me, have there been any blackcurrant-related crimes in the area? Could your mother have been involved? That’d be very convincing evidence.”

“Are you crazy? She’s my mother! She’d never do anything illegal.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to imply anything upsetting,” Sherlock said hastily. “I mean, I’m breaking and entering here. I wouldn’t be casting aspersions on anyone’s morality.”

“Well, the answer’s no. So there.”

“I see.”

“Although,” John said slowly, “that’s not nearly as crazy a question as whether or not there have been any blackcurrant crimes lately.” 

“Oh, you’d be surprised the kind of focuses there’ve been for crimes,” Sherlock began, then stopped when he caught John’s eye. “Are you teasing me?”

“Little bit.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Sherlock said dismissively, and took another long pull from the bottle. 

“You’re rude. I think we’re a good match.”

“You’re quite right. Are you allowed on the Underground by yourself yet?”

“After my birthday next month, if I don’t act up or set the house on fire or anything until then.”

“In that case, do refrain from setting the house on fire for at least that long. Here.” The boy produced a notebook and pencil from nowhere and scribbled something down. “That’s my home address. Meet me there, any Thursday after one, that’s when Mycroft has his violin lessons.”

“Mycroft?”

“My older brother. I’d better be going now, I need to make some comparisons about the water levels in Regent’ Canal during the night.” He rose and handed John back the bottle. “Sorry about the dustbin, John. I’ll have a new one sent. Anonymously, of course.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say “no, that’s not necessary” but he didn’t; Sherlock had broken theirs, after all, it was only fair. “Wait, how’d you know my name was John?”

“I’m a master of deduction,” Sherlock informed him. “You just wait. I’m going to be famous when I grow up.” He put his hands on the fence and vaulted over. John winced at the subsequent crunch and muffled yelp, but didn’t budge. It’d been a terrific exit, even if the landing left something to be desired. 

 

 

Twenty years later, John was typing up his blog entry for the night when there was a crash from outside. He went over to the window and opened it, to find a figure teetering on the ledge just out of sight and cursing very softly. 

“Sherlock? Is that you?”

“Yes, funnily enough. My torch fell out of the harness. I’m afraid it’s in little bits by the front door, do be careful when you go out tomorrow.”

“You’re trying to break into our own flat, again? Can I ask why this time?”

“Practice.” Sherlock swung himself through the window frame and tripped into an armchair, a little unsteadily. “I need to work on my second-story technique, John. Shimmying up is all right, it’s the fall that worries me.” He looked down at his stomach a little ruefully. “I’m not as light as I used to be.”

“You’ll get it right when it matters.” John shut the window and planted a quick kiss on Sherlock’s scalp; the detective flushed, pleased. “I expect you’re starving.”

“Yes, actually.”

“There’s some sausages and mash in the fridge. I’ll just warm it up in the oven, give it a couple of minutes.”

“I may not have informed you of all the pertinent facts, John,” Sherlock called out as his partner vanished into the kitchen. 

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Well, an extra motive. It is our anniversary, you know. Of sorts. I felt it deserved some sort of commemoration.”

John came back in, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “And I agree. Why do you think I made mash yesterday?”

“Very perceptive of you.”

“Come over here to the sofa, I can’t cuddle you properly squashed into an armchair.”

They nestled together, for a few moments of pleasurable silence.

“It took me three days to realise you’d figured out my name from where my mother had written it into the collar.” John said eventually. 

“The shirt fit you perfectly. Obviously bought for you and not a castoff from an older sibling.”

“I only wish my shirts still fit that well now,” John said regretfully. “I’ve gone up two sizes in the last month, you realise that?”

“It’s your own fault for spoiling us both,” Sherlock replied. “You’ve become a dangerously brilliant cook. I told you, it was a great loss to the culinary profession when you opted for a career path in medicine instead.”

“I said much the same thing about you deciding not to go into police work after all.”

“Oh, I spend every other day at the Yard as is. All the benefits and none of the tedious downsides.”

“There you go then,” John said. He traced a pattern on Sherlock’s chest, playfully. “I wouldn’t like cooking to be actual work, that’d take all the fun out of it. I’d probably hate the idea of cooking when we got home, and we’d have to live on curries and takeaway forever. It’d be terrible.” His hands strayed further down, feeling the stomach beneath growl slightly. “Looking forward to dinner, my burglar?”

“Mmm. Indeed.”

They wandered into the kitchen, for a night of companionable chatter and good homely food. What better way, John thought, to celebrate a red-letter day?


End file.
